


Wreckage

by Mercarie



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Amanda isn't the focus but their marriage is mentioned, Implied Relationships, M/M, One Shot, One-Sided Attraction, One-Sided Relationship, Trevor cannot spit it out, implied pining, there's no "implied pining" tag so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-13
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-11-13 15:49:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11188347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mercarie/pseuds/Mercarie
Summary: Trevor cannot spit it out.





	Wreckage

"You know how fuckin' shady this looks?"

Leaning back on the hood of his car from the dock overlooking Vespucci Beach, Michael's eyes lazily sweep the length of the shore. It was deserted this time of night, devoid of the usual tanned blondes and roided-up dudebro douchebags soaking up cancer like it was going out of style. He tries not to remind himself that Tracey is among them (and equally as insufferable), though his mouth quirks into a frown all the same. He has no right to be disappointed in his kid; after all, she only had two parents to learn it from.

"What could be shady about two middle-aged men meeting up at an empty beach in the middle of the night?" Trevor replies without an ounce of sarcasm. Not surprising. "Nothing shady about that. What, are...are you ashamed of me, porkchop, that was this is? You want me to go?"

"No, I just-" Michael sighs, rubbing a hand across his face. "What do you want, T? You're the one that called me out here."

"Man's allowed to have a chat with his best friend." His voice drops an octave. "Not like you, uh, came back from the dead or anything, Mikey."

"Oh, best friends? We're best friends again now? What happened to burning my house down, or feeding me my own entrails, or..." Michael fumbles around in his pocket for his pack of cigarettes, "...whatever the fuck it is you do these days."

Trevor stands to lean against the dock, the candy-coloured lights from the Del Perro Pier rides flooding him in pinks and yellows and blues like a bad acid trip. Michael catches himself staring like he's trying to see through him, like if he tries hard enough he'll be able to catch the shimmer at the edges of a hallucination and Trevor will vanish. At least then Michael would have something interesting to tell his shrink. But those tattooed hands and scarred, filthy face stubbornly remain solid, and when Trevor's dark eyes flicker to his it seems like he's trying to see through him, too, and maybe...something else.

"I missed you," he says softly, though he won't look at Michael when he says it. "Really. Nine years, it's...it's a long time to go without a friend."

Michael pauses in trying to light his cigarette to glance up at him, then shakes his head and flicks his lighter open. "They don't count as 'friends' if they're terrified of you, huh?"

"They're _valued members_ of Trevor Philips Industries."

"They piss their pants every time you get near 'em. Pretty sure your face paint buddy's only around 'cause he ain't figured out you clipped all his pals."

"Shut it, you fat fuck!" Trevor shouts suddenly, whirling to slam his fist into one of the dock's wooden support beams. Michael finds himself just as suddenly staring down Trevor's outstretched index finger inches away from his face, taking note of the blood welling up on his knuckles and drying under his fingernails, the way his eyes blaze crazed and frenzied when they focus on him. He's so close he can smell the desert sand on him, the neglect, cheap beer and blood and a distinct lack of soap soaked into his clothes. Michael knew he should be afraid of this dangerous, unpredictable psychopath, but the urge to smirk right in his reddening face left no room for fear.

"Missed you too, T."

The finger only points at him for a single moment more before Trevor balls it into a fist and punches the beam again with an angry grunt like he doesn't know what else to do. He paces back and forth like a caged, feral animal before coming to stand in front of Michael, his teeth grinding audibly.

"I'm _trying_...to catch up with you...like a good friend, you asshole, and you're giving me that fuckin' smug smart mouth we all know and love you for, Mikey, but it's making me _really fucking angry_ so if we can talk like rational adults for two minutes I'd _really_ appreciate it. Okay? Can we do that, pal?"

"Sure, sure," Michael mumbles around his cigarette, putting both hands up in surrender before leaning back on them. "Let's talk."

Trevor visibly calms down at that, returning to his place leaning on the dock. There's a heavy silence between them for a while, punctuated only by the ocean lapping at the shore and the soft, small sounds of their breathing.

"How'd the wife work out?" Trevor pipes up eventually, though he doesn't sound at all interested in the answer. He drawls her name like every letter pains him. " _Amanda_?"

Michael snorts. "Like you give a shit."

" _Mike_."

"Well," Michael amends quickly, though his tone softens as he goes on. "We're doing well. Better, actually. Christ, you shoulda seen how we were before. At each other's throats, banging anybody but each other. She ran away with this piece of shit yogi for a while."

"Did you...?"

"Did- no! No. I mean, I wish. I just...I smacked him around. Dunno what happened to him. Ran off to screw someone else's wife, I guess."

" _Tsk tsk_. Getting soft in our old age, are we, cupcake?"

"That's not soft, that's witnesses. That's police reports. You think I want the LSPD on my ass for beating some asshole to death in a coffee shop? When they ain't managed to nab me for _felonies_? Fuck no."

"Not just any asshole, Mikey! The asshole that stole your stripper wife and her fake tits, plus your worthless kids. That's three investments right there, gone."

"Lay off." Michael flicks the cigarette off the edge of the dock, yawning. "Listen, it's been fun. Can't stay long. Maybe hit me up during business hours next time."

He pushes himself off the hood of the car, clapping a hand on Trevor's shoulder. He opens his mouth to speak only to close it again, and rethinks his words until they come out seriously. "Try not to get yourself killed, okay? Can you do that for me, T?"

There's the flicker of conflict in Trevor's eyes, and though Michael half expects another violent outburst he's met with a quiet, "Yeah. I'll try."

"Good." With that, Michael climbs into his car and starts for home.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Trevor watches the glossy black car pull away into the night until its taillights disappear from view.

 _I'll try_ , he wants to call out toward the space where Michael had stood moments before, cradling his probably broken hand to his chest. _It's not much, but I'll try. It's not much, but it's my best. It's not much because I fuck everything up, even telling you something as fucking stupid as how I feel._

"Yeah," he repeats in a hushed whisper, alone under the neon lights of the dock. "I'll try."

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be honest, I wrote this at like 2am because the idea wouldn't leave me alone and I ended up not sleeping. Might be garbage, I haven't really proofread. The world needs more Trikey trash


End file.
